


And I'm just dreaming

by themightywhoosh



Category: Uncharted (Video Games), Uncharted 4: A Thief's End - Fandom
Genre: Brief mention of cancer, Brief mention of dementia, Wow so this is sad, death tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 17:09:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9195518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themightywhoosh/pseuds/themightywhoosh
Summary: Sam Drake doesn't regret the choices he's made.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Wow so I was listening to 100 Years by Five For Fighting and this came up. It's unbeta'd, unpreviewed, fresh out of my dumb head. I haven't actually written anything in a very very long time. I'm trying to get back into the swing of it and find out what I can and can't do. If it's terrible PLEASE TELL ME. If it's okay PLEASE TELL ME. If it's great PLEASE TELL ME. Anyways, here's some super sad Sam Drake fic for you.

Sam was a lot of things throughout his life. A son, a brother, a protector, a provider, a dead man, a prisoner, a free man… But never was he an old man. Or a sad man. Or a father. Or a husband. Or a lover. Or at least those were never things he thought of himself as. Maybe at some point, someone did think of him that way.  
But as he lay dying, surrounded by the small family he had left, he wondered if he regretted it. If he regretted turning 50 and not ever even having a long-term girlfriend, or a kid.  
Coughs wrack his body, weak and a little frail despite the years of mountain climbing and cop running and bad guy chasing. Cassie reaches out for him and sits down on the bed, holding his hand and rubbing a hand up and down his back.  
She is a grown woman now, with a husband and a baby on the way, after almost 20 years of following in the Drake footsteps. She settled down. She was happy. That made Sam happy. He wasn’t sure how else to feel. Maybe it was the only thing he could feel anymore. The chemo tore through his body and left nothing in its wake, save a sudden and crashing awareness of what he had.  
It wasn’t that he never thought about it—Nate and Elena, Sully and Cassie, and the few new friends he’d picked up along the way. He had. He’d had nights surrounded by them where he’d felt more full and more accomplished than finding any lost city. That love and light had been all he’d known. When Elena died, Nate seemed to forget that. What he had. What he’d done. Sam didn’t want to die that way, unaware and unhappy.  
No. No. You can’t think that way now, he tells himself. Swallowing the water that Cassie now offers him, he smiles at her.  
“Thanks, kid.” His voice is hoarse. It scratches at his throat. He sees the crinkles at the corners of Cassie’s eyes fade a bit. He doesn’t want to die with everyone around him unhappy. He wants them to remember him, the way he and Nate made the whole world remember him. Except different. Except he doesn’t want to forget them either, doesn’t want to leave anything behind like the lady in the mansion and he doesn’t have anyone to save him from that forgetting and….  
More coughs. Wet, and bloody now. His chest aches, deeply. Tears stream unbidden from his eyes.  
The people in the room, the small family he has earned and fought for and with, they shuffle. They murmur. He can’t quite see them. Can’t quite make out their faces anymore. But he doesn’t want to forget, doesn’t want to lose them. They can’t forget him. He won’t let them…..  
\---------------------------------------------

Cassie is holding him. His body droops, and something stops. She doesn’t know if it’s time or the world or his heart or her heart. But she feels it. An emptiness, long brewing inside Cassandra Drake’s heart ("Sometimes you just gotta choose what you keep, and what you let go") , somehow seems to become emptier. The world becomes a little blurrier around the edges.  
“No…” She bends across her Uncle Sam’s body, bulging stomach hindering her movement’s a bit. Her body wracks, and her husband has to gently grip her shoulders to keep her from hurting herself or the baby. Everyone else fades as she squeezes him tighter. She can’t make out what she’s saying, but she can’t feel her mouth moving across the hospital gown, scratching at her dry lips. She is suddenly painfully aware of her body. Of the baby, of her swollen ankles, of her throbbing head, of her sore eyes. She can’t stop crying, but all the tears are gone. So she sniffs. Hears her dad’s voice gently chiding, “C’mon, Cassie. You can do this.” And she turns to look at everyone in the room. Notices the nurse. They exchange nods, and Cassie grabs Stephen hand.  
“C’mon.”

2 WEEKS LATER

They knew it was going to be a boy, but had argued about names for months, unable to decide. But when Sam died, Cassie had known. Had felt it in her bones.

The nurse bends down , gently passing the newborn to his mother. "What's his name?"  
“Francis Drake.”


End file.
